You’re A Firework…

Never Return to the scene of a crime, never go back to an unexploded firework, never go on another date with a guy you met with a few years back and weren’t really that interested in just because he is handsome, taller than you, and has the winning combination of brown hair and blue eyes.

I was surprised to hear from him to be honest, very surprised in fact, given that our last encounter saw me ask to lick his teeth, yep he’s that guy. He messaged me because we’re still both floating around the same dating app like farts in the wind and it seemed like a good idea at the time to get together for a drink, what harm could it do. Well no harm was wrought but I’ve learnt my lesson.

On our last date he talked non stop about his frankly very boring job and I struggled to get a word in so did what seemed best which was get scuttered on white wine and think about whether he’d shut up if we were having sexy times. I drew the conclusion that he probably wouldn’t, he’d still be banging on about sub-prime lending as if that’s what gets a girl going in the sack. So what I was thinking when I agreed to round two I’ll never know, but then again what was he thinking wanting to come back to the woman who licked his teeth in a hotel car park?

We went to a local marina for some drinks and in a startling change to our last tête-à-tête he was quiet. Quiet to the point of rudeness. He wasn’t brandishing a  bag of throat sweets so he clearly didn’t have the lurgy that’s been sweeping my little corner of the world but I’m not sure what was up. Given a rent-a-gob like me silence to fill when I don’t know someone well enough to sit in silence with them is just asking for trouble and so I’m very relieved to report that I didn’t ask him anything ridiculous, nor offer to suck his toes or stick my tongue in his ear. We managed to while away a couple of excruciating hours before I thought it was a polite time to make a break for it and went home and got sloshed on gin.

So blow me down with a feather when he only got in touch again today to ask if I’d like to do it again. What, sit in almost silence as if we’re on a date in a library? Mate, no offence, but I’ve got better things I can be doing with my time. Like organising my sock drawer, labelling my tins, or going on a date with an adult baby.


Go-go-Gadget Gastric

Went and saw lovely surgeon again last week, he of the twinkly blue eyes and always warm hands. I swear he either has handwarmers in his pockets or the adrenaline of rearranging people’s innards keeps the blood pumping. I was anxious as ever but his warm smile kept me from blurting out something stupid from nerves like last time, when I ended up offering his son a job.

Having dutifully been treated to a lovely dinner a deux of barium and Weetabix it was time to get the results and talk turkey about what’s next. Although no turkey please, it will only make me puke. Because that’s the thing… solid food makes me puke. I puke a lot. I’ve puked everywhere you can think – even into a carrier bag on my lap doing 50 in the slow lane and then had to drive home with a bag of warm sick on my knee. I was sick into a desert bowl at a friend’s wedding during the speeches; I’ve been sick on every date I’ve been on (I carry a toothbrush for these reasons); I’ve been sick in a Church; on several planes; I’ve been sick pretty much everywhere. Gross isn’t it. And I can guarantee that I’ve been sick in the presence of most of you reading this, and a lot of you will not have had the foggiest idea it’s happened. I am now the Queen of the puke and return – I slip off, do my pukey business and am back with you smiling and carrying on before you can so much as blink.

After years of avoiding the issue, being told it was heartburn by the NHS, and getting stuck in with what he calls ‘maladaptive eating’ I decided enough was enough and ponied up the money to go and see lovely surgeon privately. I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried and wanted to give him a rib shattering hug when he said he could help. Couldn’t just help in fact, but would fix whatever had gone wrong and get me back on the right path. Talk about relief.

But LTA I hear you cry, if you’re being sick so much why are you not a size zero bobblehead who needs bookends to keep her head upright because she is so weak from hunger? Why?! Well it comes down to the aforementioned maladaptive eating – basically only eating shit that doesn’t make me sick. Lovingly called ‘slider foods’ it’s all the stuff you’re precisely not supposed to be eating when you’re trying to lose weight which is precisely why my arse is expanding which combined with the puking is a fairly miserable place to be.

So I’m there in his office and we’re watching the barium go into my system on a loop, down and down it goes and I’m thanking fuck I didn’t have to swallow it this many times and he’s nodding and doing his best head tilting thinking face at it. To me it all looks kosher and I can feel my heart sink through the floor when he says ‘I hope I have good news’, before telling me that the bottom end of my stomach isn’t emptying properly and needs to be stretched out to let food through. So far so fixable.

Of course he then goes on to tell me that he also thinks my intestines are telescoping in on themselves like some sort of really shit go-go-Gadget device and that if that’s the case he’ll stitch it all back to where it’s meant to be. So far so fixable… and I’m sat there waiting for the bad news, that I’ve got to have an exploratory laparotomy which will push things back even further but nope, there is a chorus of angels and lovely surgeon tells me he will go in and do his lovely surgeon magic all at once. Huzzah!

Except of course all elective surgeries have been cancelled due to Jeremy Hunt’s master plan for ‘saving’ the NHS. What a Berkshire hunt…

Boy Who Has Hut Near One*

For some reason this year feels like it might be ‘the one’. The year where I might find a non fuckwit who has a hut near one and isn’t going to use me to smuggle coke which sees me ending up in a Thai prison singing Madonna songs and lending people my Wonderbra.

Of course I could be entirely wrong and I might spend the year wading through weirdos again but after having my poor little heart smashed to smithereens by ‘Giant Bellend of Doom’ (as he is so called, lovingly though because I’m a massive sook) it feels like I might at least be ready to try and find someone. Don’t get me wrong, my self-esteem is still through the floor and I frequently wail into a wine glass (at home alone I’m not a masochist) about how I’m completely and utterly unloveable and how I’m going to die alone surrounded by cats who won’t even eat my face off, so hideous I am. But who am I kidding because Hobo can’t even wait half an hour for his kibble so he’ll be gnawing on my face before my body is even cold.

I digress.

Inherently there’s nothing wrong with me, I have all the right bits in all the right places although granted they could be a bit smaller in parts. I can’t cook for shit but I do it in a loveable calamitous way – I once served a man risotto which could have made decent wallpaper paste and then burnt almond friands which he ate through gritted teeth and claimed to enjoy, and I’m funny in a hopefully ha ha way and not in an ‘oh god she needs committing’ fashion. I care about people and go out of my way to make them happy, and am a good kisser (so I have been told I am not just tooting my own kissing horn).

The problem I think I’m going to encounter is that I can’t help but think that all the decent ones have been snapped up leaving the slightly dented mystery tins which may contain peaches, but might also contain cat food or marrowfat peas.  Or adult babies. My friends have no single men about their persons, the idea of speed dating fills me with abject horror, and I have no hobbies where eligible men are involved. My aquafit class is filled with old ladies, my cocktail cabinet has no men hidden amongst the gin bottles, and there are none in my bed during nap time (mores the pity).

Which leaves online dating (again) which so far has been a World of married men, bizarre fetishes, and people who just really don’t tickle my pickle. I know I know, it’s hard to come across properly through pixels on a screen but I think I’m quite a good judge of character. The last one I wasn’t sure about who I let slip through the net turned into an unmitigated nightmare.

Sat in the pub having a slightly awkward drink when we get onto the subject of University. He’d dropped out which was no issue because yours truly had also divebombed my way out of my ‘ology’ degree at the end of the first year. The issue was that his parents had high hopes for their darling son and leaving Oxbridge was NOT in the plan. Cue a rant of epic proportions about how he was a grown up and could do whatever he liked, he ended this by shouting ‘I don’t need my parents, I don’t need them!’.  I wanted the ground to swallow me whole as people were staring at this man child throwing his toys firmly out of the pram.

Still I guess the silver lining of going on dates with screaming men, men who wear nappies, and those who admit to Googling me before telling me my life history is that it will make some excellent blog fodder.

Hang onto your hats kiddos, this could be quite the ride.

*10 LTA points if you get the reference without using your Google-Fu.

2017 In Review

I sat there in a quiet moment on New Year’s Eve when the parents were upstairs dropkicking the kids through bath time (not literally!) and found myself thinking about 2017 and what a nice year it was. There weren’t too many dramas, there were some low points, but overall it was bloody lovely.

I watched two of my best friends get married danced the night away in the most fabulous venue.

I went behind the secret door to drink champagne in a 20’s themed speakeasy.

I went to Oxford for a long weekend of sightseeing and boozing. I came home with a hangover and a solar powered nodding Buddha.

I joined the Board of Directors for my industry professional body and appeared on stage as an ‘expert’ (I know right?)

I went to the South of France for a long weekend conference and got quite the tan… (I counted Mississippily!) We also attended a ‘white party’ which looked like a Scientology wedding in an olive grove.

Went to Devon on Urban Family Holiday 2017, got a rash from the hot tub and a stonking hangover.

Got all gussied up and went to Polo in Hurlingham Park as guests of Team Buenos Aires – who lost but did so admirably. Fell in love with polo players in tight trousers.

Stomping divots

Went to Royal Ascot on the hottest day of the year, didn’t gamble, did eat chicken wings on a stag do afterwards.

Went out on a massive bender which ended with my chipping a bone in my elbow and snogging a random man for hours on end.

The next day went to Henley Royal Regatta with a hangover the size of Mongolia, but powered through and ended up going out clubbing afterwards. There was me dressed like I was off to meet the Queen surrounded by skinny twerking girls wearing batty riders.

Hung out a lot with my Hobo cat

Went to Scotland and froze at the bottom of a mountain during my first Board meeting.

Set up my home office – haven’t used my desk since.

Went to Singapore and fell in love with Gardens by the Bay. Facetimed a friend in the rain who thought I was mental.

Saw Jesus Christ Superstar in the open air theatre… for the SECOND TIME.

Went to Miami! Lucky old duck that I am.

Went to Wynwood Walls Arts District – a tick off the bucket list

West to Fort Lauderdale! – ate deep fried turkey whilst being serenaded by a Fireman playing bagpipes.

Went to a party in an Aquarium before refusing to drink Jagermeister out of the bottle lid in my hotel bar.

Wore a balloon hat made to look like an aeroplane BECAUSE…

I won two long haul flights anywhere in the World – now I get to take one of my dearest buddies to JAPAN baby

And ended the year having some “Therapy” whilst getting mangled on gin with my best friends.

If 2018 is anything like 2017 then I’m in for a treat… and several hangovers.

Sunday Sound Off: Tossy Platitudes

I was sat in the Admiral’s Lounge at Miami Airport flicking through Cosmo (*spits*) when I saw a piece with Lupita Nyong’o where she said her mantra is

Do one thing everyday which scares you

Now she might be an Oscar winning actress with millions in the bank, an incredible wardrobe and a gorgeous personality but I’m afraid I say bollocks to that.

It’s just so trite. Couldn’t she have come up with something a tad more… interesting? Plus, I call shenanigans on her actually doing one thing EVERY DAY that scares her because everyone has those days where all you want to do is vegetate on the couch watching bad movies. Unless she has a fear of Dave Franco frat boy vehicles? I mean heck I have days where I don’t even get out of bed let alone haul arse to the living room and turn the TV on.

It’s like “feel the fear and do it anyway”, I get the sentiment of it because we should at least try and push ourselves out of our comfort zone but what if the fear is about jumping off a cliff into a black abyss because your friends are doing it. It would seem inherently stupid to do that but if you have decreed that to be your mantra, your words to live by, then surely you’re in danger of upsetting the karmic balance of the Universe if you don’t fling yourself off?

If you asked for my mantra I’d probably say

Good things come to those who wait; but only things left by those who hustle.

Aaaaaand that would make me a gigantic fucking hypocrite because I don’t hustle, and I don’t live by it. It’s just fun to say as it makes me sound like a shoot from the hip, say it like it is, ball busting switched on woman who eats problems for breakfast.

Something more realistic would be

Is it time to go home yet?

Camel Toe or Tits a Go Go.

Being the lucky bitch that I appear to be right now I got the chance to go to Miami for 4 days.

Digging out my summer clothes in November felt quite odd, as did the feeling of a stiff breeze round my arse when I tried on my distinctly ancient swimming costume. Inspection in the mirror showed that said costume was most definitely on its last legs, it’s bandeau top was not going to live another day to flash another gay*.

There was nothing for it but to wade through page upon page of swimwear options in the very vain hope of finding something that would make me look like Bo Derek in Ten. Even if it meant you had to stand 100 feet away and face the opposite direction.

I chanced upon a cossie with underwire so at least the girls would be nicely supported for all the Baywatch esque slowmo running I was obviously going to do. I sort of hoped that the halter neck would hoick them up far enough under my chin to shield my thighs from view if I’m honest.

It arrived and I stared at the small scrap of fabric, wondering how on earth I was going to fit my arse into it. I headed to the bedroom and started the process which felt like stuffing a double duvet into a single cover. I wriggled my tits into the cups and hooked the halter neck round before straightening to look in the mirror.

Only I couldn’t.

I couldn’t straighten up because when I did, my tits spilled forth like the Hoover Dam opening its floodgates. It was like “HELLOOOOO NIPS” and so I pulled. I yanked and wiggled and yanked some more to see if I could eke our even a couple more centimetres of length from the body. Of course, pulling a swimming costume up is not like pulling a dress up because IT HAS NOWHERE TO GO EXCEPT RIGHT UP YOUR CRACK.

My swimming costume had given me mumble crotch. You could see my lips move but couldn’t hear what they were saying so of course I did what any self respecting woman in that situation would do. I wanged on about it on Instagram stories obviously.

I bleated on for several stories about my dilemma, about my knicker splitting swimming costume, and about the negative effects it was having on my vagina. Forgetting of course that I am friends on Instagram with one of my very senior industry colleagues. One of my very senior industry colleagues who heard my vagina monologues and ribbed me mercilessly about it. One of my very senior industry colleagues who was also coming to Miami and was therefore going to see the swimming costume in all its cootchie cutting glory.

In the end I decided it wasn’t worth giving myself a yeast infection to preserve my dignity and so spent the entire time making sure my nipples weren’t about to break into a chorus of “Born Freeeeeee” and whap anyone in the face when I turned over.

*I do aqua fit and quite frequently accidentally flash my norks at the camper than Christmas lifeguard.